Low Fade – Katie Arrosa

I noticed the smoke as I was agonizing over a mental text to my son on my walk to get a haircut. The smoke bloomed over the tree shapes at the end of the street like a threat, dense and black, and the size of Godzilla. Something at or near my destination was on fire. God, I hope it’s not Mike’s shop.

My pace stepped up to an urgent journalist power-walk as my eyes squinted and my mouth went ajar with concentration. Orange gleams flickered on the firetrucks at the intersection I was charging at, flashing bright even in the daylight. I heard the crackling of—oh, you motherfucker, it IS the barbershop. Shit.

I shimmied my iPhone out of my back pocket as I approached the intersection across from the scene, my eyes scanning the onlooking crowd for Mike. The balls of my feet pulsed from walking all the way here in threadbare Puma knockoffs. They shifted left and right on the sidewalk as I got photos of Michelangelo’s Barbershop being caved in with white jets of firehose water.

Mike’s rosebushes must have caught fire in the flowerbed near the front door. He had just mulched those when I had come for my last cut a month ago, the day before my job interview at the newswire podcast. The blossoms were soaked through from the firehoses, sagging into a silent-movie faint on the sidewalk. I zoomed in with my phone’s camera and saw the outer edges of the petals were singed black and necrotic. I felt something jump in my stomach when I saw a robust core of scarlet in the center of the blooms had held tight.

My eyes shot up from my phone screen when a loud pop cracked out. Campfire sparks shot out sideways from up high on the building. The debris flashed once, chaotic lightning bugs in the midmorning blue sky, and faded as they cascaded to the ground, the ash of instant old news.

There’s Mike! He was surrounded by a clutch of familiar-looking guys of varying age and dress. They must be on the same haircut schedule as me. Mike’s wife Domenica rubbed her hands over each other like she was washing them in air, her face tight with anguish. She had been crying but looked to be just getting it together. As I walked closer, I saw Mike’s mouth in a soldier-straight line of dismay and resignation.

The reporter impulse in me made me open my voice-recording app with the intent to throw out some questions. I blinked down at it, thumbed the app closed, and locked my phone. Hands of all shapes and ages took miniature shifts gripping Mike’s small shoulder, some guys bowing their heads in solidarity. Some shook him gently with that one hand, tight-lipped. Their body language said, I’m so sorry, man, this sucks.

“Hey,” I said to him, taking my turn to post my hand on his stooped shoulder. “Hey Mike, this is awful. What happened? You ok?”

“Oh, Tony. Holy cow, can you believe it?” Mike patted my hand and looked up at me. It dawned on me how much shorter and more delicate he was than when he gave me my first-day-of-kindergarten haircut. He had been big and sinewy then, booming friendly greetings to my mom and me with his slight Italian accent. Now, I could feel the strength in his hand but the fragility that had descended into the rest of his old bones. I let him go, turning to face the building with the rest of the small crowd of shaggy-headed guys.

“Nah, I can’t even, like, process it,” I said, blinking up at the flames. “End of an era.”

“This is just an inconvenience. Not the end,” Mike said, wincing a half-smile. “It’ll be a pain, but I got good insurance. I know some guys who will do nice construction work to build us back up. Little bit from now, good as new. Even better.” Another pop shot off the top of the building, showering the air over the neighboring grassy lot with flaming glitter that became gray ash. “Your 11:30 appointment is gonna be a little bit.”

“Aw, that’s ok. Hey, I’ll hang out here for a little bit if you need anything. You want me to run to Wawa to get you something to eat or an iced tea? I can hang out if you want to chat, too.”

“No appetite right now, Tony, but thank you.” He glanced between me and the firetrucks. Mike’s brown eyes got bright at the arrival of an idea, his black-framed glasses moving slightly upward. “I can give you the story of what happened, REALLY, for your radio show. The exclusive. All the guys at the station will be jealous. I have some calls to make after all this. But you come by the house tomorrow. Anytime is good. I can tell you the important stuff, you can make it a thing.”

“If you’re ok to talk about it, I’d love that. Aren’t you upset?”

“Being on the phone all the time will be a hassle, but it’s just something new. I accepted a long time ago that something like this could happen. Nothing human is permanent. This town won’t let my shop fail while I’m still here. We’ll be ok.” He smiled up at me again, and this time his eyes crinkled deep at the edges. “I’m around after you drop off Nico. Come by.”

The next morning at his school, I crouched down to give Nico a hug around his Thomas the Tank Engine backpack. He twisted away, silent, and trudged his serious-little-kid trundle up to the door where his pre-K teacher waited. My knees popped painfully as I stood up and waved, distracted.

His teacher had told me at Parents’ Night that Nico was happy to play on his own with whatever stuffed animal he’d brought with him that day. He didn’t take much initiative to approach new adults or any of his classmates, but he would answer if spoken to.

I remembered being a lot like that when I was 5, just kind of quietly doing my own thing. Maybe he’d grow up to be a weekend-warrior writing nerd like his dad, or a reporter, whatever reporters are gonna look like in 20 years. My dad bailed before I was born, so I had no way to know if Nico was the most recent in a long genetic line of wallflower types or if we were just a series of two.

I walked back over to the district with Michelangelo’s Barbershop and Mike’s and Domenica’s house. I’d seen Mike go in and out of this tidy ranch-style house while I looked out the window of the shop waiting for my turn in the hydraulic chair. I’d never taken note of the thick rosebushes dotted with hot-red blooms framing the porch with the two-person swing. They looked like the wasted ones I saw dead on the sidewalk yesterday at the shop. Relatives maybe.

I glanced over across the street at the shop as I arrived at Mike’s porch. Nothing worth taking pictures of now – everything looked soggy and was cordoned off by the fire police. Mike opened the door as I raised my hand to knock, his hand to his ear, busy with a phone call. My knocking fist turned into a mild surprised wave.

“Richard, my friend Tony just got here. Thanks for your help and I’ll call you back when I can give you my full attention. Ok…thanks, Richard. Talk to you later. Bye-bye.” He lowered the iPhone, squinted down at it, and stabbed the screen with a bony finger.

“Tony, I’m so happy to see you and glad you would come talk to me. I always liked you, from when you were this quiet little kid.” He backed out of the doorway to allow for me to come inside. “I have important things to tell you that I think the world needs to know. You’re the guy. If I had died in that fire, God forbid, all these secrets I need to tell you would’ve burnt up with me.”

I paused in the foyer.

“Secrets? Like about clients?”

“No, not like – gossip. Better than that. What I’ll tell you is a version of the truth I think everybody should know. I’m 80 years old. I’ve been cutting hair since 1958. I understand some stuff about how people work and I think it’s time I told someone what I know before I die. Did you bring a tape recorder?”

He gestured to the sitting room. I took a seat on the end of a black couch covered in loud red flower graphics and a noisy plastic covering.

I smiled and took my phone out of my back pocket. “There’s an app for that.”

“Ah, everything’s on the iPhone now. I learned how to text to keep in touch with my brother in Italy. He cuts hair too. We both do emojis. His granddaughters make TikToks. That’s next on my list for me to figure out.” He disappeared into the kitchen. Sounds of coffee sloshing into a mug trickled out of the open doorway. “Coffee? I’m having some,” Mike called.

“Sure, thanks, just black for me,” I called back. I thumbed open the voice recording app, rested my chin in my hand, and gazed left out the bay window at a tremendous replica of David in the back garden.

I didn’t bring my red notebook on purpose. People share information more comfortably when you look at them and don’t have your head down in notes. I turned my head to listen when I heard Domenica’s voice, muffled in another room. She was speaking soft Italian either on the phone to a friend or sister, or to the white long-haired cat I’d seen before in their bay window. Sounded like a talking-to-a-cat voice.

Mike returned with a white mug and set it on a botanical coaster on the glass coffee table with curly brass legs. He sat in an uncomfortable-looking dining room chair across from me. His oversized mug was teal and pink with gold-leaf calligraphy letters that said One Fine Wine Mom.

“Mike! Nice mug. Super masculine.”

“Ha! This is my favorite mug. Domenica’s not allowed to use it,” Mike said, pursing his lips to sip with his eyebrows raised.

“I figured you had a lot of sides, but I didn’t imagine Wine Mom being one of them,” I said.

“Oh, I quit the sauce in 1965,” Mike said. “And we never had kids. I got this mug from that boutique that went up maybe three years ago, next to the Nationwide Insurance? This young lady Jordyn sells little throw pillows with cats on ‘em and those Live Laugh Love cutting boards for the young moms.

“Jordyn’s a nice kid. You should go talk to her. I went into her shop on her first day to look around and decided on the spot that I needed a new coffee mug. I was the very first person to buy something from her. I like the colors of this one and it always reminds me of how excited she was to have a customer. I remember that feeling, that first guy whose hair I cut when I opened, how happy he was on behalf of me. That’s a big, important moment.”

I took a small swallow of the coffee. It was stronger and darker than the stuff I made at home, steaming hot, and excellent. I pounced on his pause.

“Tell me about these secrets you’ve been carrying around. Do they have to do with the shop burning down?”

“They have everything to do with everything.” Mike set his Wine Mom mug on an end table next to him and stretched his legs out in front of him, slumping comfortably in the stiff chair. “Or, at least, anything that matters. What I want to tell you is the whole reason I’ve had a successful business for 50 years and why I’m not worried about the fire.”

I tapped the red recording button on the voice app. “Tell me things.”

“Tell you things. Ok. When I was in high school back in Maida, Italy, back in the 50s, one of my teachers took me aside after I got in a silly argument that went bad with my classmate. She said to me, ‘Michelangelo DeRosa, if you have one wish from a genie, wish to be happy. And the only way to be happy is to have good relationships. You need to apologize to that boy because you were wrong, and that relationship matters.’ And you know what? I did what she said, and he and I were close until he died in 2013. He was my best man, my brother in my heart, and my best friend in the world.

“When I met Domenica, I always had that in the forefront of my mind, about relationships. She was special: brave and generous, smart as hell, funny, and a good cook. She let me know right away she expected to be treated with respect. Domenica is from a family of loud, strong Italian women who always stuck up for each other. I knew I wanted to understand what she needed to be happy so I could give it to her, so then maybe she’d come to America with me.

“Domenica is my entire skeleton. Without her, I would be a useless jellyfish. I never would’ve had my own shop. She went to bat for me for the business loan and took care of me and the house so I could follow this generational line of barbers. In Italy, barbers are held up on a stage like doctors and lawyers. It’s a sought-after profession, and if you go to America! In America, you can do anything!”

Mike grabbed a pant leg to hoist his calf onto his other knee. He twisted a dull gold band on his ring finger, staring out the window a moment. I waited as he took a deep, thoughtful breath.

“Good relationships come only from honest, clear, kind communication. Always assume the person across from you means well, that they have a good heart, and are doing their very best with what they got. Always tell them the truth and you don’t ever have to ever look over your shoulder. You can just forget about it and only focus on what really counts.

“I never lied to Domenica in 60 years. Trust is the only thing, very important. Trust is the glue. Go out of your way to clear up miscommunication because it will always be your biggest problem, with everybody, forever. It will mess up everything that matters, and that trust.

“So good relationships are the only thing that will make you happy, and good communication is the only way to have good relationships. That’s the first thing.”

Mike reached up to put his mug on the end table next to him. His hand twitched, his grip failed, and the mug toppled to the floor with a startling bang. The coffee splattered onto the hardwood, and the colorful mug broke into big pieces.

“Ah! Shit,” Mike said, drawing his legs up to stand, his hand on his forehead. “My mug!”

I paused the recording app as Domenica rushed into the room.

“Are you all right? Hi, Tony,” she said, eyes wide and flicking back and forth between me and Mike.

“Yes, I’m ok. My carpal tunnel just got me and I lost my grip,” Mike said. “Oh, I’m so sad. My special mug.”

“Don’t worry,” Domenica said, ducking into the kitchen. She returned with a roll of paper towels and a dustpan with a brush. “I’ll clean this up and see if I can glue it back together. I know this mug is special. If I can’t mend it, you’ll go back to Jordyn’s and buy a new one from her. Brand-new barbershop on the way and a new mug. Out with the old.”

She scooped the splatters of coffee into a circle with a paper towel, ripped off a new sheet, and had the mess handled with such speed that it occurred to me this must be a familiar routine.

Domenica slipped back into the kitchen and I could hear water running and cabinets opening and closing. Mike settled back into the stiff chair and rubbed his shoulder, grimacing. Domenica was back out in the sitting room with a new cup of coffee in record time. She kissed his forehead.

“I’m going to rinse off those pieces and see if I can fix it with some Gorilla Glue,” she said. “You caught me at a good time. I just got off the phone with Jerry.”

“Thank you, honey. I love that mug,” Mike said, his eyes following her across the room as she left and then settling back on me. “Where was I?”

“You were talking about relationships,” I said. I pressed the red record button again to make a new sound file. “Trust is the glue.”

“Yes, you know what, that shop where I got the mug, Jordyn’s boutique. She was such a nice person that I still make a point of sending my young clients over to her. Christmas, birthdays, anniversaries, young men absolutely never know what gifts to get their girlfriends. I know Jordyn is good, too. If she doesn’t have what they want, she helps them get other ideas.

“These guys, some of them I see their whole lives. Like you, they come in the day before their first day of school, prom night, job interviews, their weddings. I get to see them on the eve of these huge moments in their lives when they’re excited, but also not sure what to expect. Those girlfriends they get gifts for become their wives with short hairdos. Then my clients bring their little boys the day before THEIR first day of school.

“I have carpal tunnel and pain in my shoulders and back all day. I take ibuprofen with my coffee every morning. Even these new ergonomic tools they come out with for barbers, I mean, I’ve been doing this since 1958. It doesn’t matter.

“The relationships I have with these guys, I worry about what they need and how I can get it for them. That’s it. That’s how you add value to someone’s life. You see something they need and you just do your damnedest to get it done.

“I might be the only person who physically touches these guys when they come to see me, the only guy who tells them I like them and I believe in them, maybe the only one who asks them how they’re doing or says I like their new shoes. Men don’t get compliments the way women do for each other.

“People are unsure of themselves, that they’re even lovable, but they’re also followers. If you lead and say you like them, and you really LISTEN to them, they believe they’re likeable and worth listening to. It gives them a boost before these important moments they’re preparing for with the haircut. You gotta help them go through that door a little lighter, knowing someone gives a rat’s ass about how they do in life.

“Do you remember the time you came in before your first day of preschool? You said you were scared your teacher was going to be mean and that she wouldn’t like you.”

I nodded. “Yes. You said something like, ‘well, I like you.’”

Mike pointed a knotty-knuckled finger right at me and grinned, unveiling a missing tooth on the driver’s side.

“You do remember! I have that talk with little boys who are afraid to go through that door. I tell them, ‘I like you, and therefore I bet this teacher is going to like you too.’ I tell them if I think they’re really smart and hardworking, or if they’re good at sports, I tell them they can help the other kids learn ball games, or that they’re good at art, or being a friend to the other kids. All of these things are likeable and good.

“I think most kids feel afraid they’re alone facing down the unknown; they’re scared of this new thing. They’re afraid to walk through that door not knowing what’s on the other side.

“That’s not just little kids, either! That’s everybody. That’s why we get together for christenings and weddings and graduations and funerals. The community gathers around that person to say, we love you, we’re here to help usher in the unknown as you go through this door. We’re not going anywhere. That’s what I’m doing with these little kids who are afraid of the next thing, and then with the guys going on a big date, or getting married, or going to their dad’s funeral.

“The best way to add value to someone’s life is to take some weight out of their suitcase. You were worried your teacher wouldn’t like you. I reassured you that I liked you, and that took a worry off your plate. Just act like a good friend to people, you know? It’s rough out there in the world.

“Being a good friend means being a good listener, standing by, and taking worries away. You gotta let them know, the sun’s coming up tomorrow no matter what, and regardless of what happens I’m not goin’ anywhere.

“This! This is another one of my secrets, though. Women will tell you everything on their mind: the good, the bad, and the ugly-as-sin, in my experience. Most men, they don’t want to tell you the sad or shameful things, the stuff that goes wrong, their failures, their anxieties. They draw into themselves when stuff goes bad.

“However! If a man is telling you about what he did that he’s proud of, some milestone, you better listen good to what he’s saying. That’s a big deal to him. He NEEDS you right then to be with him as his friend, so it should be a big deal to you too.

“Give that person, an adult OR a kid, your full focus and all your effort right then, in that moment. Everyone is important. Your attention and praise, as long as it’s heartfelt and you mean it, you gotta mean it, will make him feel ten feet tall.

“Also! This will make them like YOU, and you’ll be a magnet for all this good news because they know you’re a safe person to tell because you’ll celebrate with them. That’s good for your relationships and will make both of you happy.

“You know the reason I’m not worried about building the shop back up?” Mike picked up his replacement coffee mug, sliding a flat hand under the bottom after it shuddered.

“Why?”

“Richard, I was on the phone with him when you got here, that’s Jordyn’s dad. He sold me a good business-owner’s insurance policy out of his Nationwide next to Jordyn’s shop. Richard was so excited I was Jordyn’s first customer and supported her, he cut me a break. I always paid early and in full, and he made sure I had the best liability coverage I could get.

“If I have anything to say about who does the work, I’m going to hire Ricciardi & Sons. One of the sons just had a baby boy and the other part-time guy is doing a masonry apprenticeship. I want to make sure they have steady work for the rest of the summer. I cut their hair, too.

“I always kept my relationships healthy, all over town. One of my responsibilities is to be happy for people as they accomplish things or stand on the threshold of something new. People do new things as a group, in seasons. Prom season, wedding season, graduation season, back-to-school, the holidays. I know my customers will come back when I reopen. They’ll bring their kids and tell their new neighbors that move in next door.

“I’m not gonna take it personal if they get their hair cut in the meantime at that new barber at the strip mall. I don’t expect everybody to be walking around looking like disco guys with the shaggy hair because they’re waiting on me to reopen. It’s not an insult to me if they can’t wait.

“That’s another thing. People aren’t usually AGAINST you. They’re FOR themselves. Hair grows back. They’ll come again because they like talking to me and they can count on me to listen to them, tell them I like them, and be supportive when they’re doing something new.

“Your Nico, he starts school soon, huh?” Mike set the coffee cup down and crossed his ankles.

“He started already. It’s daycare, really, but they do shapes and colors, painting. Kindergarten’s in the fall.”

“When you pick him up from school, what does he tell you about his day?”

“I just ask if he had fun or learned anything and he says yes or no. He’s like me. Doesn’t say much but will answer questions.”

“I bet if you ask him questions that aren’t yes or no, if you really try to pick up on what he likes about school and reflect excitement back at this kid, you’re gonna see a whole new side of him.”

“I mean, I think you’re probably right. It’s just hard to get him to open up. I think we’re the same type, just kind of quiet. Slow to chat.”

“When you came to your dad when you were in school, if you had an art project you were excited about, or if you got a good grade on a test, or you won a race at recess, what happened?”

“My dad wasn’t around. My mom was a single mom and was too busy for my little concerns. She wouldn’t even be listening and would just say ‘That’s nice’. I learned to just keep it to myself.” I felt my expression turn into my 4^th-grade face falling as I shouted to her that I got an honorable mention ribbon at the science fair. She was late for her shift that afternoon and didn’t answer.

“See!” Mike clapped his hands together and gestured at me with an open palm. “You were excited about something, and no adults in your life would be happy for these things that, to you, were huge! Very big! And instead you felt small, like things important to you didn’t matter.

“That’s adults, too. What if we celebrated? That reward of attention after you won a game or painted a great picture, that could’ve been the start of some kind of passion that would last a long time.

“Don’t worry about it now and wonder about what could’ve been. You latched onto reporting since your articles in high school got some happiness from your mom and then from you. I remember you told me when you got your first byline, because you knew you were good at something. And I was excited for you at your interview for that radio job last month because I really want you to keep going. Most paths people head down, it’s because they have love for the game. I just want to help fuel you along.

Mike pointed his index finger at the ceiling, an idea dawning, as he slowly stood from his uncomfortable chair and shuffled into the adjacent sunroom. “I have something for you that I want you to take home,” he said. I heard something metal clatter to the ground as Mike moved something unseen, and irritable curses in Italian.

He re-emerged with a powdery dirt streak down his untucked white button-down shirt, holding a potted rosebush the size and shape of a 6-month-old infant with two red blossoms quivering on top.

“See this? I propagated this one from the big bush out front. It’s in the same family as the ones that got wrecked in the fire. This particular rose bloodline, Home Run Red, they can take a lot of shit. They’re more-or-less immortal. Those ones that burned up yesterday, they’ll be back.

“I want you to think of what I said here when you look at this. Keep it in your kitchen. It’s small. You’ll see it every day when you’re talking to Nico. Look right back at him, give him your full attention, and don’t multitask. Don’t ever tell him ‘that’s nice’. Be interested. Little kids are people too. Go really big and enthusiastic when he tells you about something new in his life.

“To you, drawing stick figures and kissing little girls is old news. To him, his first swing at anything is the complete unknown. Let him know trying new things will always get your support and that you’re not going anywhere on him. It will make him brave, and happy.

“When this little bush gets bigger, and Nico gets bigger, plant it by your front door. It’ll remind you always to remind HIM you have his back when he’s at a threshold. Those doorways will come faster as the years go on. But just be happy together with him as he goes through those new experiences and reassure him when he has questions about if he’ll be ok.

“This is also a gift from my heart, Michelangelo DeRosa, the Famous Rose Man. You recognized me at this turning point, my new chapter, even as I’m 80 years old. You fully heard what I had to say as I’m excited about these ideas. You were interested and listened carefully. Show this same engagement to Nico and watch him burst open.”

“What about the fire? Do you know what caused it?”

“The fire marshal is still looking into it. But I know it was an accident, that truth will come out, and that’s what’ll help us get the insurance money to build it back up. That’s not the story. What I told you about people, that’s the story. That’s what your audience needs to know the most.”

He shuffled over to the foyer, gesturing for me to get up. I touched the red record button on the voice app again to save the sound file and followed him. Mike hoisted the baby-sized rosebush over to me.

“I still have some phone calls to make, Tony,” he said, patting my forearm with his hand full of sinew and arthritic gnarls. “I hope you use what I said. It’s important!”

“I’ll do something with it, I’m sure,” I said, looking down at the bush. “Thank you for the rosebush. I’ll put it where I can see it.”

“It’s a tool, Tony!” Mike boomed into my ear as he opened the door and shooed me out onto the walkway. “Do what I told you and watch what happens!” I blinked at the street in the blinding sunshine and started home, shifting the rosebush from hand to hand, the thorns biting tiny holes in my t-shirt.

***

Christmas music is not my thing. But I only have to hear it a few months a year, and it makes Jordyn happy to have it blasting through our house. Marriage is compromise, I guess, and taking turns. She puts up with my pop punk without complaint when I’m working on my next news story, which is pretty much the whole rest of the year.

Nico’s home from college for Christmas break. He’s recovering from finals and stays up all night talking to his girlfriend back in Gainesville on video chat, so he sleeps through breakfast most of the time he’s home.

When he balances his tall, lanky frame down the staircase around lunchtime, it occurs to me as I watch him from the living room that I must look small and old. To him, I was big once. My kid is huge now, not even a kid. Nico is a young man with great friends I like, ok grades, a new girlfriend I haven’t met yet, and a passion for persuasive public speaking that he discovered in debate club.

I stand at the open front door to look at the gigantic rosebush planted next to the walkway. It’s bare right now, but we get dozens of electric-red blooms in constant waves throughout the summer. It’s so big that it’s a hassle to prune in the spring with the thorns and all, but this bush has an indestructibility I respect.

Nico pours a cup of dark, strong coffee in the kitchen and sits library-style on the overstuffed couch in the living room, pulling a blanket onto his lap. He pats the seat next to him and smiles up at me, his eyes flashing with a happy secret.

“Dad!” he croaks, and clears the sleep out of his throat. “Guess what happened last night.”

“Nico!” I say, sitting down next to him. “Tell me things.”

Written June 2020 for my cousin as a present for the grand opening of her own hair salon. The character of Michelangelo DeRosa was inspired by Antonio Votta.